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A city floating in the center of a lake, Ravok is a place of dark beauty, romance and culture. Behind it all though is the presence of Rhysol, God of Evil and Betrayal. The city is controlled by The Black Sun, a religious organization devoted to Rhysol. [Lore]

Bartholomew Dicey didn't exactly like his job. He didn't enjoy bursting into people's homes and taking everything they owned. He didn't like the crying and begging, and he especially didn't like when they tried to fight back. If a mercenary was sent to collect a tax, something involved danger. As such he always brought his sword and dagger with him, and almost every job he did involved someone too stubborn and foolish to let their money and possessions be taken. Bartholomew tried his hardest not to hurt them or kill them, but life never went as he wanted, and someone often got hurt.

Hopefully, there would be no injuries with this tax collection; although, Bartholomew wasn't praying. If he needed to he would kill for his own survival, take as much valuable possessions as he could carry, then throw the dead body into the lake. He'd done it before, he'd do it again.

It was the dead of night when Bartholomew came. He made sure that no one was aware of his arrival. He was taught by his father that covert missions required complete silence, and when people looked upon you all they saw were shadows. Even now, as Bartholomew walked through the docks, he made sure no one noticed him or heard him.

When he came upon the house he spent the entire night looking for, Bartholomew paused for a bit to go over how he would handle this. One option was breaking in and giving his target a fright. Another option was knocking on the door and hoping that a crossbow wasn't on the other side. If Bartholomew wanted to break in, the first thing he had to do was find an opening to the house. Making one would probably cause trouble, and alert the neighbors. Knocking was the best choice he could think of for now.

So, Bartholomew walked up to the house, a masquerade mask covering his face. If he saw a man like himself wandering up his home he would definitely be afraid. The bastard sword on his back wouldn't do much to calm him down either. However, Bartholomew had to look this way, for he didn't like anyone recognizing him. If things did go south and he killed the target, the last thing he would want was someone recognizing his face.

Bartholomew knocked twice, hoping that would be enough to wake up the home's residence. When no one answered he raised his hood and knocked again, this time six times in a row with a lot more power. That got someone's attention then.

"Ahm Comin' Ahm Comin'!" Bartholomew heard someone say inside. It took a while, but after lighting some candles his target answered. "Yargh, wut can ah-" When the old man opened the door and saw Bartholomew he paused. Barth could see the fear in his eyes, noticed the tremble of his lips, and knew that this man was going to put up a fight.

Before he could shut the door, Bartholomew kicked it in, causing the weak old man to tumble backwards. Bartholomew slowly walked in, making sure his footsteps didn't make a sound. Even when he closed the door behind him, he made sure it was silent. The man, on the other hand, made as much noise as he could. He grunted and cried while lying on the floor, making as much noise as he could, until Bartholomew pulled out his Bastard Sword. The man shut up then.

"Please don' hurt me! Ah know Ahm an old man, but Ah still have a lot to live for!" As Bartholomew moved closer, the man crawled away. At this moment Bartholomew controlled the situation. As long as he wanted to live the man will follow Barth's instructions, doing what Bartholomew say and when he said it. This was the power of intimidation, of taking someone else's fear and using it for your benefit. Bartholomew's father taught him how to make use of this long ago, and he never got the most important lesson of intimidation: Stay in control.

"I'm not here to hurt you, yet. Now stand before I impale you and force you to stand." Bartholomew's voice was stern and demanding. It showed no hint of weakness and a great amount of power. It was true, Bartholomew had a great amount of power at this moment. He could do whatever he wanted to this man, kill him, mutilate him, rape him; the possibilities were immense. And there was nothing he could do or nothing the stryfe could do to save him. They both made noise, but not enough to awaken the neighbors, and definitely not enough to alert Ravok's military. Tonight this man was Bartholomew's and all he wanted was one thing. "I work for the Nitrozians and I am here to collect the taxes you've been skipping for three seasons."

Obediently, the man stood. "Taxes? Ah don' own no taxes!"

Immediately when he said that, Bartholomew sent a stern leg to the man's knee. The old man howled in pain and fell to the floor again. For a tick Bartholomew thought he'd broken the man. There was a crack when Dicey connected against the old man, and the target wouldn't stand. He was crying again, this time literally and with tears streaming down his face. Yet he did not make a sound lest he wanted to deal with Bartholomew's bastard sword.

"That was strike one, two more and you float dead down the lake. The Nitrozians don't care whether if you live or die. Do not lie to me again, do you understand?"

Still silent, the man nodded.

"Now," Bartholomew picked the man up with one arm and threw him to his couch. The old men couldn't stand on his own, most likely because Bartholomew just dislocated his knee. It was a little extreme, but it got the message delivered. "I am going to ask yes or no questions. All you will do is nod and shake your head, I'm getting tired of hearing you slander the common language. If you speak without my knowledge you will incur my wrath, understood?"

With tears still streaming down his shriveled cheeks, the man nodded.

"Good," Calming down a little, Bartholomew sat adjacent to the man, on a seat that seemed oddly comfortable. His Bastard Sword rested in his lap. "Now tell me, do you have the money to pay the tax? It's gotten quite expensive, so much so that I should be carrying out a bag when I leave."

The man shook his head, and Bartholomew sighed.

"Then we have two options. I either kill you, or you sign this contract."